


Knútsdrápa

by purloinedinpetrograd



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dark Ragnar, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purloinedinpetrograd/pseuds/purloinedinpetrograd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the plague and Ragnar’s return to Kattegat, Athelstan finds his world shifting beneath his feet once again. He searches for faith. Ragnar searches for answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knútsdrápa

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a mention of a certain torture method used in Vikings time in Hannibal. This is not a happy story.

In Uppsala, Bjorn and Athelstan had stood before a statue of Thor, and Bjorn had asked him if he recognized the god.

Of course, he had responded; of course he recognized the mighty Thor, the fearsome god who with the strike of his mighty hammer, forged the lightning that lit the skies.

Of course he knew Thor, he told Bjorn, but even as he affirmed his allegiance to the boy’s god, his fingers curled around the smooth wood of a cross pressed into his palm. (A reminder from home, he told himself. That, and nothing more.)

Later, the priest of these gods had asked him if he were still a Christian, and he pledged that he was not. _Again_ , the priest asked him.

“No,” and Athelstan had not been sure if he meant the word on his lips.

“And a third time,” the priest asked again.

“No,” he said, his voice holding conviction that did not exist in his heart; but the priest had seen this, had seen through his words and into his soul, and he had known.

(The priest did not need to see the widening of Athelstan’s eyes to know he did not belong to their gods.)

When Athelstan ran from the priest, from the painted faces and eyes that saw too much, he had thought of Judas.

\---

Athelstan returned to Kattegat - to _home_ , as he had just barely begun to allow himself to call it, but he was no longer sure if the word felt true.

He returned nonetheless, and time passed. Uppsala was not forgotten, but it did drift from his thoughts; the memory no longer stung in his consciousness each time he moved amongst these people (his family, his brothers, his captors), but instead settled upon him like a damp chill that could not be kept at bay with furs.

Not soon after, Ragnar took Bjorn, his brother, and some men, and had left. _To negotiate on behalf of King Horik_ , Lagertha had told him. _To prove my worth_ , Ragnar had explained.

If it was a test of Ragnar’s mettle, Athelstan had thought idly, he would doubtless rise to the challenge. He had seen first hand both his cunning and his strength - and if Athelstan’s mind, in confirmation, wandered to the faces of men he had called brother and remembered them slaughtered - if he thought of nights where his cup was kept filled and stories of home (not home, just England) were coaxed from his loosened tongue -

Athelstan did not think of these things, and he did not feel the tightening of bitterness around his heart.

Ragnar, Bjorn, his brother, and some men left, and Athelstan remained at home.

\---

Ragnar had not been gone more than a week one night when Athelstan had a visitor in his bed, small fingers pressed against his frame and urging him awake, bed dipping beneath the small body next to him.

“Athelstan,” came the hushed voice, light and sweet. _Gyda_ , Athelstan realized. “Athelstan, wake up.”

“Yes?” he said, bleary eyes blinking open, voice thick with the remnants of his slumber. “Gyda, what are you doing here?”

“I can’t sleep,” she said, sitting back on her feet, hands pressed into her lap.

“Why did you not go to your mother?”

Gyda cracked a small smile. “She sleeps like a bear these days,” she told him, but Athelstan knew this was a lie; Lagertha could be roused from slumber at the smallest disturbance, but she had taken to _waking_ like a bear, so he did not blame her. “Tell me a story,” she insisted, raising her eyes to meet Athelstan’s.

“A story?” he asked, shifting himself so that he was sitting upright, and Gyda was quick to press herself against his chest so that she was nearly sitting in his lap. (When Ragnar told her stories, Athelstan remembered, he would always begin by dragging the girl to him, and she would laugh her protestations but never try to escape. Athelstan thought he made a poor substitute.)

“Well,” he sighed, smoothing his fingers over Gyda’s soft hair, “how about I tell you of the time when Thor drank the ocean?” Ragnar had told it to him, once, when the two sat by the fire alone and Ragnar probably had too much to drink, and Athelstan definitely had.

Gyda shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’ve heard that one before.”

“Then how about...” Athelstan said, trailing off, mind searching through the tales he had heard the others recount enough times to have remembered in full.

“Tell me the story about the warrior who kept his power in his hair,” Gyda said, twisting her head to gaze at Athelstan. “You told it to me when mother and father were in England, and I was woken by nightmares. Do you remember?”

Athelstan did remember. “You want to hear of Samson and Delilah.”

“Yes,” she smiled.

His body grew tense against her. “Those are false stories of a dead god,” and he tried to make himself sound sincere. He _was_ sincere, he told himself.

Gyda’s smile did not falter. “So?” she asked, voice full of innocence, and her eyes were wide; only the slight quirk of her lips gave away that this innocence was a mask that she had chosen to wear.

“Wouldn’t you rather hear the stories of your gods, who still live? Or the stories of brave warriors, who walked among your people?”

“I want to hear about Samson and Delilah,” and her voice was firm.

“If you insist,” Athelstan ceded, and the smile she bore now was pure. “There was once a great warrior by the name of Samson, who had been granted by God a strength greater than any other man,” he began. With each word he spoke, Gyda relaxed against him.

He let himself curl an arm around her as he recounted the tale, voice soft and low. By the time he was finished, he had nearly thought Gyda asleep; but after a moment of silence, she stirred.

“Will you be able to sleep now, do you think?”

“Yes,” she answered, and pressed a small kiss to his cheek in thanks. She made to leave, but paused, her eyes lingering on Athelstan. Moving quickly, she brought her mouth close against Athelstan’s ear and whispered, “I am grateful your God saved you in Uppsala,” before rushing away.

Athelstan was left alone in the silence of the night, and with the company of his own thoughts.

When he lowered himself back down to sleep, he felt more comfortable with them both than he had since Uppsala.

\---

Athelstan had felt as though Hell had risen to engulf him twice before in his life - once, when strange men came from the sea and slaughtered his brothers and stole him away, and again, when a priest of these new gods ( _his_ new gods) had told him his fate had been chosen to be that of a sacrifice.

These had both faded to feel like nothing more than nightmares vaguely remembered when Hell came to meet him once more.

The plague overcame Siggy alone at first, but it did not stop there; the disease washed over Kattegat like a flood unimpeded, the torrents of sickness and death quickly drowning their small community.

Athelstan was caught in its current.

It came quickly, and dragged him to his knees with a heavy cruelness; in one moment, he was tending to the sick with Lagertha (tending to Thyri, Siggy’s daughter - she had bright eyes, a kind smile, and soft lips; as he dragged a damp cloth against her fevered skin, he was reminded of the way that she had once bathed him.)

In the next moment, he was being tended to.

It was Lagertha that saw it coming before even Athelstan; Lagertha who had looked at him with sad eyes as a cold sweat clung to his skin, as his arms grew too weak to carry a bucket of water.

It clattered against the floor loudly, and all those strong enough turned to look at him in a moment of silence that weighed against him. “Athelstan,” Lagertha had cried, rushing to his side - and then the moment passed, and the hushed, worried tones filled the hall again.

“I am fine,” he assured her, but his knees trembled beneath his weight.

“No, you are not.”

“I _am_ ,” he insisted.

“Have it your way. You are fine. But still, you need to rest,” she asserted, and against her will he could only nod.

She did not send him to his bed, and instead Athelstan was given a place next to the sick. He was laid down on a stiff cot on a cool floor, and a damp cloth was pressed against his forehead.

Athelstan dreamed the restless dreams of a mind raging with fever, and dreamed still while he was waking; when Gyda took a place lying amongst them, he was not sure if it was real.

“Gyda is ill, too,” Lagertha told him, and his heart sunk.

“I saw,” Athelstan said, but his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. He had always spoken softly, but now, he could not manage anything above a harsh and cracked whisper, even if he tried. “I was hoping...”

“She will be fine,” Lagertha assured him, not letting him finish.

“Do you pray to your gods?” Athelstan asked, and if she noticed that he had called them her gods and not his own, she made no mention of it.

“I do.”

“Good,” he said simply, and turned his head away from her.

“You need to eat,” he heard her say, but he did not stir; he was tired, and his bones were aching, and so he let slumber claim him.

Athelstan dreamed of Hell.

He dreamed of terrible monsters that came from the sea, rising from the waves with snarls on their lips, and the ground bled red where their footsteps fell.

He tried to run from them, but they were faster; large hands and sharp claws dug into his skin, dragging him back into the ocean, and the water rushed into his mouth when he opened it to scream, filling his throat; the salt from the ocean burned his lungs, and he was gone, lost to its clutches.

Just as darkness embraced him, he blinked and there was light again. There was a seat beneath him and a bible in front of him, and his hands shook.

A dream, he realized - a dream, and he was still home, still at his monastery, and there were no monsters that rose from the sea.

He was surrounded by his brothers who wrote in their bibles, pens moving in time with each other as they worked; Athelstan raised his hand to follow, but as soon as he brought the pen to paper, it crumbled beneath the tip. He started, reaching out as if to hold the paper in place, but it turned to dust beneath his fingertips until there was nothing before him - no bible, no stand; around him, there were no brothers, but the ocean outside the monastery churned and the clouds were dark and rang with thunder.

“You still pray to your god,” a booming voice spoke to him. It was a question.

“No,” he said.

Hands were on him, then, pressing him forward and onto a stone table; his shirt was gone, and it was cold and unyielding against his bare skin.

“And again.”

“No.”

“And a third time?”

Athelstan opened his mouth to speak, but all that came from his lips was blood; bright red rushing forth, puddling around him and engulfing his vision.

And then -

Nothing.

Except that was not true; there was still the ache in his bones, the cold that clung to his skin, the heat that raged beneath.

“My child,” came a voice, and Athelstan turned his head towards it. A woman, he realized, and his head was in her lap; her hand stroked his damp curls, her skin smooth and fair. She looked upon Athelstan with eyes that were wide, and a smile that was pure.

She was beautiful.

“Who are you?” he asked, and it came as a whisper - but sure, and it was not the jagged sound of a man fighting death.

“I think you know,” she said simply, the back of her palm caressing his cheek. Her words were Latin. “What do you pray for, my son?”

Athelstan thought for a moment. “I pray for Kattegat,” he said.

She hummed. “Do you?”

“I pray for Gyda,” Athelstan admitted.

“Is that all?”

Athelstan did not answer.

“Athelstan, my dear,” the woman continued, “tell me what you pray for.”

“I pray for my life,” he said at last, and she smiled again.

“God still hears you,” she told him, “if you would only talk to him.” She pressed warm lips against his forehead; the contact brought a soothing wave of relief rushing through him - his heavy limbs grew light, and his mind cleared.

Athelstan blinked again, and he was in Kattegat. _Alive_ , he thought, and it came with a feeling of surprise. He lifted himself up, joints aching slightly but otherwise able; his stomach growled, and with a laugh that bubbled in the back of this throat but did not come forth, he realized he was hungry.

He did not think on it for long, because as his eyes roamed across the room, he saw a familiar small figure that lay unnaturally still. _Gyda._

He rushed to her side, called her name, gripped her shoulders and tried to awaken her -

But she did not move.

Her skin was cold, and no breath left her lips. Athelstan lowered his head, and his heart grew impossibly heavy.

He cried.

\---

When Ragnar and his company at last returned home, they came with smiles of triumph on their faces, with laughter on their lips, with victory in their stride.

They came home with one more person than they left with.

(Bjorn was not smiling.)

They were met with eyes still wet with tears, with the cries of grief a shadow on lips, with hearts that throbbed with the ache of loss.

Ragnar was a smart man, and he had known - as soon as his company had all crowded into the hall, and he had seen his wife seated upon her throne - that something was wrong. His smile was gone.

“Who is she?” Lagertha asked, looking at the woman who stood with Ragnar and was tall and slight, with a hand resting over her stomach.

“Lagertha,” Ragnar replied, “now is not the time.”

“Who is she?” Her gaze was harsh and her tone unwavering. She would be answered.

“She is Aslaug, the daughter of the shieldmaiden Brynhildr,” he said after a long moment.

“And why is she with you?”

“Because she has nowhere else to be,” Ragnar answered simply.

Lagertha was like her husband in many ways; and she, too, was smart. She turned away, and her eyes burned, but she did not say anymore.

Athelstan shifted where he stood to the side, unsure of what had transpired; Lagertha had heard the truth between Ragnar’s words, but Athelstan spoke their language, not their secrets. He did not know what this was.

The uneasiness was soon lifted from the hall though it lingered on Athelstan, and before long Ragnar was telling tales of their travels as others rushed to embrace those that had returned home. Ragnar cried for a feast, and Lagertha smiled tightly. Athelstan was unsure why she did not stop him - why she did not intervene, why she was not explaining to her husband that Kattegat was still recovering from fresh wounds.

Why she did not tell him his daughter was dead.

Bjorn, who had been standing alone, came to Athelstan. “Where is Gyda?” he asked.

Athelstan could only look upon him sadly. “There was a plague,” he gave in answer, and he hoped it would be enough.

The younger Lothbrok’s face turned from understanding, to shock, to rage, all in the matter of seconds; he turned from Athelstan, shoving a man much larger than himself out of his path, and he ran from the hall.

Athelstan watched him leave, and did not see Lagertha watching him as well.

\---

Athelstan sat alone, eyes downcast, as he threaded a needle through cloth, many hours since Ragnar’s return, when the man finally came to see him.

He spoke his name, and Athelstan looked up to blue eyes staring at him. “Have you spoken to Lagertha?” Athelstan asked, but knew the answer; had seen Lagertha take him aside and to their room. Ragnar had emerged first, and his hands had been shaking; Lagertha some time after that, and Athelstan had seen the tracks of tears shed on her cheeks.

“Yes.” He said nothing else on the subject, but sat down next to Athelstan as he worked.

Athelstan felt naked beneath his gaze, and not just because he had shaved the beard he had worn when Ragnar had left, but it did not help. It had not taken him long to grow out his tonsure after he had left (been stolen from) the monastery; but still, with his short curls and clean shaven face, Athelstan had stood out clearly for what he was.

A foreigner. (A slave.)

He had grown the beard to be like his captors, just as he had adopted their gods - but their gods did not save him from death, and they had not saved Gyda. The cross he still wore felt like it burned his skin as he hid it beneath his sleeve, growing his hair and trying to mourn in the language of paganism.

The vikings, still, had not accepted him - not truly, not as one of their own. None had except for Gyda; and now, Gyda was gone, and Athelstan had no answers as to why.

Leif’s blood (his blood) at Uppsala was meant to have granted them the gods’ favor, and yet they still did nothing but take; Athelstan’s God had sent a message in a fever dream that He was still listening, and yet He did not answer.

Athelstan shaved his beard, but still he hid his cross.

Ragnar noticed the change, reaching out and taking Athelstan's face in hand. "You shaved," he remarked, and Athelstan was worried the comment was a chastisement. He could hear no such tone in his voice, however, and there was a smile on Ragnar's face. "I like it," Ragnar continued, and the smile did not reach his eyes.

It was still the first smile that had been directed at Athelstan since before the plague, so he accepted it greedily - barren eyes and all - and he made no mention of it when Ragnar’s hand lingered much longer than it should.

Ragnar spoke to him, of things that were not Kattegat and the plague and Gyda. Athelstan was grateful that Ragnar did not utter the words that he heard in his mind, an endless chant that could not be silenced beneath his thoughts - _It should have been you_.

\---

They still held a feast, but two nights later; it was the soonest it could be prepared, with Kattegat hurting as it was from the plague.

Athelstan was allowed to be seated at the table, and he was sat next to the woman Ragnar had brought back with him. There was a flash of something that Athelstan could not place in her eyes when she had realized where she would be sitting, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came, and he could not read anything from her after that.

She carried herself with authority - not like Ragnar and Lagertha did, the authority that was enforced by strong eyes and tense muscles, the authority that came with the promise of punishment. It was a thing much easier than that - a man could be cowed into submission by her with just a glance, for no other reason than she had wished it, and no other promise beyond it. It had taken Athelstan more than one glass of mead before he gathered the courage to speak to her.

“Ragnar said earlier that you had no place else to be,” he said to her. “If you do not mind me asking, what did he mean by that?”

“I am carrying Ragnar’s child,” she told him, simple and without bravado.

Athelstan froze. “But,” he said, slowly, “Ragnar is married to Lagertha.”

“Yes,” Aslaug said. “But it has been many years since she has born him a child, and years more since she has born him a son.” She spoke softly, and her words were not said cruelly. She spoke as though she were stating a truth.

She glanced at him, and Athelstan knew the conversation was over. He took another swig of mead, and turned away.

\---

Athelstan was grateful for his bed that night, his steps towards it made clumsy from the mead. He had collapsed into a dreamless sleep, but was not long after torn from it by a hand on his shoulder, and a voice speaking his name.

For a moment, he had been reminded of the night when Gyda had shaken him awake and he had spoken to her of Samson and Delilah; but Gyda was gone, this hand was large and rough, and the voice deep and desperate.

“Athel _stan_ ,” the voice continued, stripping away the furs that covered his body and rolling him onto his back.

“What - “ Athelstan gasped, but he was silenced by teeth scraping against the skin of his neck. “ _Ragnar_ ,” he choked out, because it could be no one else. “What are you _doing_?”

“You would have me tonight?” Ragnar asked him, knee sliding Athelstan’s legs apart so he could settle between them, eyes darkening with something Athelstan had seen in Ragnar’s eyes only few times when he had looked at him -

But many times when he had looked at Lagertha.

“You have two other beds to go to,” Athelstan told him, not understanding the hot kisses Ragnar was pressing into his neck, not understanding the way his body came alive beneath the strong hands, not understanding why he did not pull away.

“Neither of them want me there,” Ragnar told him before pulling at his skin with his teeth, sucking bruises into the tender flesh. “Do you want me here, priest?” he asked after a moment, pulling away to stare at him, the name a taunt. Athelstan met his gaze, and felt the breath leave his lungs at the way Ragnar was staring at him - with all of the intensity those impossible eyes, as blue and as deep as the ocean, and it weighed heavily on him.

Athelstan did not respond, but his throat betrayed him and he gave a small whimper at the loss of Ragnar’s mouth against him.

It seemed to be answer enough.

Ragnar’s hands moved beneath his tunic, and Athelstan realized he meant to remove it; the cross on his wrist bit into his skin, and his fingers grasped at it, struggling to be rid of it as Ragnar made quick work of the tunic.

(After Uppsala, Ragnar had come to him, had asked him about his faith; the loss of Leif, his friend as well as fellow warrior, was finally settling on him, and he told Athelstan he had thought him no longer a Christian. Athelstan said he was not, and the cross was merely a reminder of days past, just as he told himself. Ragnar told him to wear it no longer, and the words he did not speak rang cruelly in Athelstan’s mind.)

Cross and tunic both went to the floor, and Ragnar sat back, fingers trailing down Athelstan’s chest lightly as Athelstan sucked in quick, short breaths. Ragnar seemed satisfied by the sight of pale flesh before him, a smirk on his lips and eyes bright, though Athelstan did not know why - did not think himself a sight to behold, but Ragnar clearly disagreed.

His fingers found one of Athelstan’s nipples and twisted, harsh, and Athelstan cried out; Ragnar laughed, licking at it, drawing teeth over the abused flesh.

“Please,” Athelstan begged.

“Please _what_?”

“I do not know,” Athelstan admitted, wriggling beneath Ragnar as his knee pressed further between his thighs. “Just, if you must - touch me - more, _please_ ,”

“If I must?” Ragnar asked, amused at his words but continuing nonetheless, sliding down his body to undo the lacing of his trousers. “Up,” he commanded, Athelstan blinked at Ragnar, confused, before the man grabbed at his hips. Athelstan complied then, angling himself upwards so Ragnar could slide the fabric down, revealing his cock that was not yet fully hard.

Athelstan was bare now, and Ragnar was still fully clothed; somehow, this seemed unfair, and he flushed - the blush reddening his cheeks as he averted Ragnar’s gaze.

It was brought sharply back as Ragnar’s hand curled around Athelstan’s cock, stroking up and down the length of it, eyes staring directly at Athelstan as he grew hard in Ragnar’s hand.

Athelstan had, in times of weakness he once hated himself for, taken himself in his hand. It was nothing like the feeling of Ragnar’s hand on him - large and rough and sure in the motion, holding Athelstan in place with both a hand on his hip and the heavy weight of his gaze on him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Athelstan sighed, canting his hips upwards, rutting into Ragnar’s hand.

Ragnar removed his hand far too soon, and Athelstan cried out at the loss of it.

“Shhh,” Ragnar whispered to him. He leaned back, sitting up enough so that he could tug his shirt up and over his head and pull his trousers down enough to free his cock, curving up to his stomach and already hard; the trousers he did not bother removing completely.

Athelstan stared at him with eyes wide, and Ragnar laughed when he noticed. “Do you like what you see, priest?” he asked, before leaning down over him again, biting kisses into his neck and aligning their cocks, trapping them between the weight of their two bodies pressed together as he began to thrust.

If Ragnar’s hand on him was nothing like he had felt before, this was _worlds_ away. “ _Ragnar_ ,” Athelstan said in what sounded much more like a whine than he had intended; his hands scrambled for purchase on his back as Ragnar’s cock thrust against his, as the full length of his body pressed down on him.

Athelstan was near release, and his body began to tense just as Ragnar stopped and wrapped his hand, hard, around the base of his cock and squeezing. “No,” he said, voice rugged, “not yet.”

Athelstan whimpered.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, far gone enough that he didn’t care that he was begging, but Ragnar just shook his head.

“I would have you, priest, and I will give you your release while I am inside of you,” he whispered against his ear, and if it weren’t for Ragnar’s hand still tight around him, he may have come from those words alone.

“God,” he stuttered.

“No,” Ragnar said, “but I am the son of Odin.” He nipped at his ear, then slowly released his grasp.

Athelstan watched as he produced a small vial of what looked like oil that he had brought along with him; he had been planning this, Athelstan realized, and while that seemed clear enough now, realizing it came as a shock to Athelstan.

He poured some out onto his fingers, and Athelstan watched with caution, unsure of what Ragnar was planning. Ragnar nudged his legs further apart, grabbing one of the furs to the side of Athelstan and rolling it up with one hand, sliding it beneath his hips.

“Ragnar...” Athelstan said, the question clear in his tone.

“Legs wide,” Ragnar instructed, and with some hesitance Athelstan complied, shifting his weight into his arms a bit so he could lean up and watch what Ragnar had planned. His hand, fingers glistening with the oil, trailed downwards - just grazing over the base of his cock, brushing over his balls and causing Athelstan to take a sharp intake of breath, before dipping, finally, to between his thighs and at his exposed entrance.

Athelstan’s eyes grew wider than he realized they could when Ragnar pressed against him, locking his gaze with Athelstan’s, who was gasping shallow and fluttering breaths, before he pressed his finger inside.

Athelstan squeezed his eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of being breached by Ragnar, the protest of his muscles around him. Ragnar curled his finger, drawing out a moan, and corrected him sharply: “Eyes open, Athelstan.”

He opened them again, as Ragnar slid his finger out and thrust it back in again, drawing it out again just so that he could slide another in.

Tears welled at the corner of his eyes, and the stretch began to burn slightly; it felt strange, and it felt uncomfortable, but this time when Ragnar thrust inside him again, the strangeness began to bleed into pleasure, and he cried out.

His arms gave out and he let his head lie against the bed, eyes rolling upwards but remaining open as Ragnar had instructed, mouth parted as he panted harshly with each movement of Ragnar’s fingers.

Now, Ragnar was spreading his fingers and stretching him open before he thrust in again, each time searching for the right angle to coax out the moans from Athelstan’s mouth. Athelstan’s fingers clung tightly to the furs beneath him, and he lifted one hand to touch himself as Ragnar thrust inside him - but he was already so close, and Ragnar removed the hand from his hip to swat Athelstan’s back down to his side. “Not yet,” he told him, and Athelstan whimpered.

A third finger joined the others, and the sensation was overwhelming; Athelstan angled his hips to meet Ragnar’s inward thrust, fucking himself on Ragnar’s fingers as the man’s lips quirked upward. “So tight, and all for me,” he said. “I’m the first one to have touched you like this,” he spoke into Athelstan’s neck as he leaned forward, gripping his hair and forcing his head back, exposing his neck. “I’m the only one to have you,” Ragnar growled.

“Yes, _yes_ , Ragnar, only you - but, _please_ -”

“Please what?” Ragnar asked for the second time that night.

“More.”

Ragnar smiled into his skin, and withdrew his fingers; Athelstan wrapped his arms around his back, swinging one leg around him as he growled in protest. “Just a moment longer,” Ragnar assured him, and he poured the oil over his own cock, taking it in hand and pressing it against Athelstan. He hesitated, just for a moment, before rolling his hips forward and sinking inside him, using his arms to brace himself up on either side of Athelstan’s body.

Ragnar’s cock was nothing like his fingers. Athelstan moaned into Ragnar’s neck, pressing close and digging his fingers into the bare skin of his back - holding tight, holding onto him like he was afraid of falling if he were to let go.

Athelstan _was_ afraid of falling, afraid of falling into the feeling of Ragnar that was everywhere - around him, beneath his fingertips and pressed against his lips; inside him, pressing in and opening him up.

Athelstan was lost, and his mouth was moving, but he did not know what he spoke; did not give a thought to the mantra of “Ragnar, more, Ragnar, _please_ ,” that spilled from his lips.

Ragnar was happy to comply, sliding all the way in now, revelling in the heat of his partner. “So good,” he whispered, and Athelstan drank up the compliments greedily; “so good, so hot, and all mine - you are mine, are you not?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Athelstan gasped, even as Ragnar withdrew and slammed back in; he did not take his time, did not go as slow as he had when he was stretching him open on his fingers.

His pace was fast, and it was brutal, and it was _perfect_ ; even with the offbeat tempo of his thrusts, he still managed to hit the right angle, managed to enter Athelstan _just so_ , so that he cried out with each roll of his hips.

“Can I,” Athelstan asked, voice breathless, “can I - can I please, Ragnar - “

He could not finish his thought, could not _think_ with Ragnar splitting him open, but Ragnar knew his meaning nonetheless and gave his consent.

Athelstan removed one shaky hand from Ragnar’s back, bringing it between their bodies and curling it around his cock, stroking in time with Ragnar’s thrusts - and he had barely needed to at all before he was coming, spilling white and thick over both his chest and hand.

Ragnar was not far behind; he sank inside Athelstan again and his arms tensed on either side of him, and his release racked through his body.

Ragnar let his arms collapse, pressing down against Athelstan’s chest as he carded fingers through his hair soothingly, and they laid like that for some moments.

Athelstan had just regained the function of conscious thought when Ragnar slipped off of him, lacing his trousers back up and pulling his shirt back on.

He stared down at Athelstan for a moment where he lay; chest moving as he took deep breaths of air, the skin at his throat abused his pupils blown wide as he stared glossy-eyed back up at Ragnar, his seed drying on his chest and Ragnar’s dripping between his thighs.

Ragnar’s lips turned upwards and it was more of a smirk than the kind smile Athelstan wished it were instead, and he couldn’t look away from the blue of his eyes, couldn’t stop drowning in the ocean they contained.

He was far beneath the waves, and he could not reach the surface.

“You should clean yourself up,” Ragnar told him - then turned, and left.

\---

Ragnar did not speak of the encounter the following day, and Athelstan pretended the soreness he felt was not there.

It was for the best. Aslaug’s presence had thrown whatever precarious balance they had managed to find after the plague and after so many deaths, and now - even as Athelstan worked with his head down, not meeting the eyes of anyone - he could feel the change in the air, could feel the way it felt like they were all slipping.

Lagertha and Ragnar sat side by side in their seats before the people, but they did not look at each other. Aslaug sat in the rooms that Ragnar had given to her, and still it felt like she was standing before them.

Occasionally, though, Athelstan would look to Ragnar. And how could he not? Not for whatever they had done the night before - not for the way Athelstan ached for some sort of confirmation, or, perhaps, closure - but simply for the way that Ragnar took up so much _space_ , even in the great hall he seemingly filled entirely.

Athelstan worked, and he avoided the gazes of others, and sometimes he watched; but Athelstan said nothing, and no one spoke to him.

It was for the best, and it continued for some time.

(It was for the best, too, Athelstan began to think, that Ragnar did not return to him in his bed at night, and that neither of them spoke. Ragnar was still grieving the loss of Gyda, he knew; still moved with it heavy on his shoulders, and it must have been clear to all who looked at him.

Ragnar was not at ease. He burned with the loss of his daughter and unborn son, still stung with a betrayal that he could not place. Ragnar had paid his price in blood to the gods, and yet still his daughter had been returned to the earth, still he had lost so many of the people he was meant to lead.

He did not know why. He was looking for answers.)

\---

Athelstan wished for more nights without dreams, but the dreams plagued him nonetheless.

Athelstan dreamed of Uppsala, and a blade covered in blood that was not his own, and he dreamed of Leif’s face and Ragnar’s hand holding his wrist adorned by a cross.

He dreamed of Gyda, laughing in his arms as he told her stories, and he dreamed of feeling her life slip away beneath his fingertips as he prayed.

He dreamed of Ragnar, and the look in his eyes when he took Athelstan that night when he went to his bed; he dreamed of the look in his eyes as he looked for where Gyda should be standing.

Athelstan was drowning.

\---

They had only just entered the winter months, but still the air held a chill that was biting. Athelstan had wrapped a cloak around his shoulders before he left the hall, entering the surrounding woods alone.

He did not tell anyone he was going. He did not think he would be missed.

Athelstan didn’t travel very far; just enough so that he was surrounded by wilderness, just enough so that he could not turn his head and see Kattegat waiting behind him.

Before, he had spent so much of his time trying not to be left alone, tried not to be trapped with only his thoughts for company; now, that was exactly what he sought, and he found it was frustratingly hard to come by.

With only the trees around him and civilization beyond his sight, Athelstan felt alone, and he was glad for it.

He let himself drop to his knees, and pulled the cross from its place beneath his sleeve, pressing the smooth wood to his lips, not caring about who might see. There was no one to do so.

“Lord,” he said, voice barely above a whisper but still aloud, and it felt strange to hear the word on his lips. “You sent me a message when I was struck by plague, and told me you still listened. Was this true?”

Birds took flight in the distance, and the air was still. Athelstan drew in a shaky breath.

“If it were true, then why did you not answer? Why did you let Gyda die?”

He exhaled. He waited.

“Father, I do not pray for my life. Not anymore.” Athelstan struggled for a moment - he prayed for something still, though, he knew; prayed for it in each averted gaze in the hall and each shuddering gasp as he awoke from nightmares.

“I pray for purpose,” he said at last, and it was right.

The sound of branches snapping beneath feet caught his attention, and Athelstan turned, rushing to his feet to see who was intruding.

It was Ragnar, and his eyes were alight with fire. He stared at the cross in Athelstan’s hand.

Ragnar came upon Athelstan suddenly, fisting the fabric of his tunic as he dragged him close.

“You still pray to your _god_ ,” he spat. It was an accusation.

“Yes,” he answered, but he could barely hear his own voice.

“Come again?”

“Yes,” he said, louder. He heard voice shake.

“So you admit it? You are still a Christian? You have not accepted our gods?”

“ _Yes_ ,” and this time, his voice held conviction, and he knew it in his heart to be true.

(The second question, at least. Athelstan had been abandoned by Ragnar’s gods, but also certainly by his own. In fever he dreamed sweet things, but no answers ever came - even as he pleaded for them now, even as he would always return to cling to the cross on his wrist.)

Ragnar held him at arm’s length, but he did not release him. “It should have been _you_ ,” Ragnar told him, gaze boring into Athelstan and he could feel the fire that raged in those eyes hot on his skin, and it was as though the flames could lick him at a distance.

“I know,” was all he could reply. He did not ask him if he meant it should have been his blood spilled at Uppsala, or if it should have been his body burned after the plague. Both were true.

“Leif was given to the gods because you could not be,” Ragnar said, his hold on the fabric tightening. “Gyda was taken from us. So many of our people are gone.”

He paused, and he stared at Athelstan, and Athelstan could not breathe. “I spared your life. I brought you to my home, and kept you there, past your usefulness to me. I treated you as equal - I fed you our harvest, I clothed you - “ and with this, his hands released him as quickly and suddenly as though something had snapped within him. He pulled at the cloak around Athelstan’s shoulders, throwing it to the ground, tearing at the fabric beneath it in his rage. Athelstan shook as the cold air embraced him.

“We give our thanks to the gods, _priest_ , but still - here we are - here we are, giving you their gifts as you _mock_ them.”

Athelstan looked down. Ragnar laughed, and it was a bitter sound. “To think, I had you in my bed.”

_Not your bed. My bed_ , Athelstan corrected silently, and he could almost laugh that _that_ was the thought that came unbidden to his mind.

That Ragnar had him in Athelstan’s bed, and not his own.

“You must pay,” Ragnar told him, lunging forward again to clench Athelstan’s shoulder in one hand, and to wrap another around the back of his head, pushing it forward.

Their faces were nearly touching.

“Do you understand me, preist? You will pay, and you will pay the price you stole from us in Uppsala - you will pay the price you have made _us_ pay in the plague.” His voice shook.

Athelstan did understand. Ragnar meant for him to die.

_It should have been you_ , whispered a voice in the back of his mind, and he could not protest.

He did not want to die.

He abandoned his God. He had been abandoned by his God.

Ragnar had deemed him deserving of death.

Ragnar tugged on Athelstan, and led back to Kattegat, and Athelstan did not fight him.

\---

Ragnar had announced his intentions as soon as he dragged Athelstan into the hall, and voice echoed throughout; it was determined, and none would dare defy Ragnar when he spoke in such a tone.

Lagertha looked at Ragnar, and then she looked at Athelstan. Her eyes were sad. Her lips did not move. Her voice was silent.

Bjorn did not look at him at all.

No one made a noise of protest. The only one to make a sound was Floki, who laughed, a twisted thing that bubbled forth from his throat. “When?” he asked.

“Now,” Ragnar answered.

Athelstan stared at his feet as Ragnar fisted the fabric on his back, and led him outside the hall again.

_You are going to die_ , his mind supplied. _Ragnar is going to kill you_.

He squeezed his eyes closed, and swallowed thickly. His heart beat wildly, and he wondered how Ragnar would kill him. Would he slit his throat, as they had to Leif, let him bleed out and then hang him upside down?

Or was that only for a sacrifice? This was no sacrifice, Athelstan knew; this was revenge. This was paying a debt.

A small crowd had gathered outside the hall - Ragnar had made a commotion, and all were interested to see what that was.

They were going to get quite the show, Athelstan realized, and it almost made him laugh.

“This man,” he heard Ragnar call out, “is a Christian. We have fed him and clothed him and cared for him when he was dying - and yet good men are gone and here he stands, still. Stands here even as he denies our gods,” and his voice burned with rage.

The people shouted.

Athelstan was shoved onto the ground, knees hitting hard before his face was shoved into the dirt by a large hand on the back of his neck. Ragnar ripped at his tunic, stripping it from his body with one motion of his arm, the fabric tearing away easily beneath his hand.

(Athelstan focused on the heat of his hand and the way Ragnar had once placed himself between his legs. He had thought his touches rough, then. He had not known.)

Ragnar’s knee was on the small of his back now, holding him down, keeping him in place. “Let us give him back to his god,” and this was said thick with venom. “We should give him wings, should we not?”

Athelstan grew tense.

“This _priest_ once spoke of his dead god as living in the clouds - should we not give this man wings, then, so that he may fly to him?”

There was laughter, and Athelstan turned his head to look at Ragnar to see what was happening. Ragnar’s eyes did not look at his; instead, they were on the skin of his back laid bare before him, and they were dark.

(Athelstan did not think of _that_ night again.)

In his hand someone pressed a knife, and in the midday sun it glinted bright, shone of its promise of death.

Ragnar brought it to his skin.

Suddenly, Athelstan was scared - _truly_ scared - and he was drowning in the feeling; but when the knife drew down his back, along one side of his spine, it was nothing like the dreams - nothing like the vague night terrors of his life fading and fear choking his lungs.

He screamed, hands grasping for purchase against the dirt beneath his fingers but finding none, struggled to escape the feel of the blade tearing through his flesh. Ragnar’s hold on him was strong, and he could not.

The hand on the back of his neck tightened, forcing his face into the ground further, but Ragnar made sure to leave it tilted to the side; made sure he could look and see what Ragnar was doing.

Made sure as he could watch as the flesh was pulled away.

Athelstan’s throat was sore from his screams but he could not bite them back - tried to bite them back but tasted blood on his tongue, and he must have bitten too hard but he could not feel it, could not feel anything but the rain of fire falling heavy against him that was the pain of Ragnar’s work - could not feel anything else at all.

When Ragnar _pulled_ , and the pain grew sharper and Athelstan did not even know that was possible - as he could _feel_ something break, bile rose in his throat and he was emptying his stomach onto the ground; but he could not lift his head, so even as it spilled from him it remained in his mouth, the taste heavy on his tongue.

Athelstan blinked, and he realized for the first time that tears were falling from his eyes, and his cheeks were wet.

He could see something in Ragnar’s hand; something slim and white beneath the stain of blood red, and he could look no longer. ( _The ribs from his back_ , he realized; Ragnar was breaking away his ribs from his spine, making wings from his bones.)

His head was dizzy and he barely had the strength to avert his gaze, but when he did, he could see his hand on the ground next to him, could see it even as darkness fringed his vision and threatened to engulf it - even as his entire existence became reduced to the pain of Ragnar’s hand on his back - even as he could no longer taste bile but only the harsh salt of sea water in his mouth, and his lungs could not draw in air.

His thoughts could no longer take the form of words - his mind could not fathom such things, not when the pain took so much attention - but as Athelstan struggled to look ahead, to stare at his hand motionless on the ground, he thought of smiles that were pure, and eyes that were bright.

He was still holding his cross.

**Author's Note:**

> Jinxii drew AMAZING, AMAZING ARTWORK TO GO WITH THIS, and you all need to go look at it [here](http://thejinxess.deviantart.com/art/Blood-Eagle-374275154). (Warning: it's what happens to Athelstan in the final scene. Yeah.)


End file.
